Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete's father, was killed at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed us hard, yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great fellow with an axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost.

Then shall I do so now ?--though it is true that I fear yon goblin more than all the Highlanders beyond the Tweed.

Ride on; man can die but once, and for my part I care not when it comes, who have little to lose in an ill world." So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they went.

Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or through brakes of thorns.

Hard enough it was to find it at times, since the snow made it one with the bordering ground, and the gloom of the oaks was great.